Goodbye
Erin Douglass
My husband and I have bought a house. It's across town, on a hill, close to things, yet far away, too. We'll likely move in a month.
There will be new neighbors with new sounds. New views and new walks. And yes, a new bus — two in fact, although my ride to work will be shorter by half.
This cool, gray morning, I watch the stores swish by from my usual window seat near the back of my bus. So many things have changed since I started this commute in late summer of 2002.
The outdoor furniture mart on the corner of Beverly and Alta Vista is gone, replaced this summer by a trendy, uninspired imitator. We got our cabinet at the original, as well as our coffee table. Both are teak-and-brass pieces that will be a beast to move.
The used bookstore next to my hair salon — which relocated across and down the street this week — closed a month ago. In spite of the surly owner, I loved to browse its stacks and rarely left without an old cookbook or paperback.
Near La Brea, the design place that became the crepe place is now a Mediterranean place. Where did the crepe guys go? They were so friendly — one from Serbia, the other from Sonoma. Their crepes were good, but the café always looked dark and closed.
The bus trundles into Hancock Park. The houses get bigger, the sidewalks emptier. Larchmont Boulevard sails by. Ten years ago I worked at Chevalier's Books, that street's sole bookstore and one of LA's last independents. I've had a million and one jobs since then — writer, editor, tutor, temp. And now here I am, busing downtown to my job as a copyeditor in a cubicle in the sky.
We cross Western Avenue. One of my favorite sights — the Chicken Boy display in the Koreatown storefront — vanished months ago. The window included a cardboard replica of the old restaurant mascot, along with a snazzy, speeding Sig-Alert that blared "Chickenboy.com." I visited the website and even emailed Chicken Boy's mom asking if I could interview him about his thoughts on public transportation. I never received a response.
This September, however, a list of the U.S. war dead in Iraq, each name on its own piece of paper carefully taped to the glass, appeared in Chicken Boy's window. At the bottom of the list, a plea to vote. This makes me sad every time we pass. When I started this ride over two years ago there was no war. Now local soldier obits fill the Times.
The purple clothing boutique that sprang up in the midst of a dingy block near the subway only lasted a few months. For weeks before it opened, a "Comming soon!" sign hung over the door. Now all you can see are two empty racks sitting in the room.
Would I ever have the guts — or the cash, for that matter — to open a store? Settling on a retail motif, like picking a tattoo, strikes me as impossible. Last time I tried to conjure my fantasy store, I ended up with a cross between Charing Cross Road and Tim Burton — old books, quirky toys and trays of excellent burgundy lipstick. I'd call it Paper Claw. Or maybe Chez Hortense.
Good thing I have a job already.
We're deep into Historic Filipinotown. The martial arts studio at the top of the hill looks like it got a new coat of paint before the rains started. Across the street, Bryan College has fresh banners hanging on the sides of its otherwise anonymous building.
After we crest the hill near Alvarado, my favorite part of the ride appears: the mystery garden. When I started riding this bus, there was nothing but trash and weeds beside what I guess is a post office annex. Now a garden thrives in the space — sunflowers, corn, and a host of green, leafy, edible things. Who tends it? And when? I've never seen a soul out there, although it's clearly cared for.
How have I changed? I think I'm more confident, thanks in part to my job. The thought of speaking up at meetings no longer sends me into a panic. I've got short hair again after several years of messy curls. And I've tried new things — yoga, being an aunt — which I like very much.
Along my bus route, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
King's Road Café in West Hollywood still serves up mediocre food to hoards of beautiful people at its sidewalk tables. The New Beverly Cinema near La Brea still manages to show a different double feature every night.
Drivers run red lights.
Saint Kevin's Church still has the greenest, neatest grass out front. Practically a third of the bus still crosses itself as we go by.
The skeleton of the Belmont Learning Center still stands untouched on its polluted, methane-haunted lot near downtown. Will work ever restart? Or will they have to knock it down?
Killer potholes — especially the one at the foot of the Glendale Boulevard overpass — still rattle the bus. And my favorite store signs — Reynaldo Sandwich Burger, Jaunty Co., and Fifi & Romeo — still make me smile as they pass.
And myself? I'm still fascinated by this city of ours, and by the places and faces I see each day. I do the math. I've looked at these store fronts, bus stops, alleys and apartment buildings more than 1200 times since my commute began.
It doesn't feel like it.
Yesterday, I boarded the bus and recognized one of my regular drivers from two years ago. His head was shaved and he drove a bit better, but he was the same guy.
Did he recognize me, too?